


Story of a Coat

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:27:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Eponine's last day on earth, as told from the point of view of her coat.





	Story of a Coat

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is revised from a fic that I originally wrote and posted on ye olde fan fiction.net back in 2002. I'm slowly but surely working on getting all of my writing in one place, and making improvements to some very old stuff as part of the process. 
> 
> This is much more musical inspired than book inspired.

I've never felt her run like this. Her feet, though bare, are as light as those of a bird; they scarcely touch the ground she darts across the sharply stoned street. I trail behind her heavily, almost clumsy upon her lithe form. Though I do my best to cover her, to envelope her in my warmth, my years of service to her have rendered me ragged and threadbare. My appearance is that which would be expected of the coat of a miserable street girl. There is nothing I can do to hide her from the wind, or keep her from trembling within me.

Once, twice, she looses her balance as she moves in a wavering zigzag line. She is constantly forced to duck, to avoid being hit by one of the many bullets whizzing through the air. I feel what I assume she feels, fear and excitement that race through both of us. As one bullet after another misses her, I begin to fantasize that she is invincible — invincible and invisible, and why shouldn't she be? It's not as though anybody has ever taken the time to see her. 

I never knew adventure or freedom, before I knew Eponine.

I can still remember my youth, my time as a thick, warm, artistically cut coat of a rich master. I only remember bits and pieces of my former master. He was larger than Eponine, with soft skin that smelled of aftershave. He didn't have much use for me, because he seldom left the house. When he did, he walked in slow, measured steps, through gardens and other beautiful places. When he didn't need me, I slept alone in a dark closet.

When I was given to Eponine out of charity, I considered it a blessing. Since then, I have always served her as well as I could, though this service has been slowly destroying me. 

At this moment, I am terrified, because the bullets are coming closer and closer to my dear mistress. If just one hits, I fear I will not be able to save her. I know not why she has chosen to risk her young life in this manner.

Presently, she is gasping for breath. Her heart, in her little chest, is beating against me, singing a frantic song that only I am close enough to hear. A strange sort of shaky tenseness has developed in her muscles, and I feel it so acutely that I fear she will fall.

Perhaps it is her exhaustion that causes her attention to go lax, and her eyes to wander from the guns surrounding her to the ground below her feet. Perhaps she is merely afraid to stare her death in the face, as the realization starts to come over us both that she is not beyond the reach of death. It must be fear of the unavoidable that makes her tremble beneath me. She has come too close to the barricade, to the battle ground, to the students’ bloody freedom fight. There is no place for human life. She is doomed.

Indeed, in an instant, a bullet comes whizzing straight towards her, black and glaring. I see her lift up her grubby hand in a desperate attempt to shield herself. Soon, a a large hole has swallowed up her palm. She tenses, and I pray that somehow I can stop the bullet from passing through me, and reaching her heart. 

It is of no use. The hole goes through us both. 

Hot, thick liquid trickles into me, the first few crimson drops being easily absorbed. She shudders, and then inexplicably renews her speed. Although her blood is now escaping her wound in torrents, her footing seems firmer and more decisive. I know not what desperation propels her foreword, but she is moving as if pulled by an angel.

She seems already to be a ghost to me by the time she reaches the barricade, a specter as she jumps down off of the wall. Her blood is everywhere now, dripping down her leg, and streaking her dark hair. I simply cannot fathom how one so small has managed to bleed so much, and keep running even so.

She smiles when she sees Marius, and patiently answers his questions about the letter she was to deliver. Ah! So that's the piece of paper she is carrying! So, it is this letter, and Marius, that has brought her to this moment! And, yer Marius has yet to notice. He does not see, until she collapses in his arms.

I would hate him, if not for the smile that spreads across my mistress's face the moment he touches her. She evens out her breathing, oh so carefully. The shudders of pain that have been running through her cease, and she goes limp and relaxed in his arms. The sky opens up, and rain pours down upon us all.

Marius speaks softly to her, in kind words that her life has denied her up until now. He can't possibly understand her. On warmer nights, when she was ready to go to bed, she would take me off to bundle up as her pillow. Often, she fell asleep instantly, utterly exhausted. Other nights, however, when the day’s events have left her weary but restless, she spoke into me. She whispered his name, and spoke words of love to herself as if in another voice. Sometimes, she touched the empty pavement next to her, caressed it, and tried to feel a phantom body next to hers. Usually, she fell asleep with a smile on her face, and more rarely tears. 

Now, for the first time in forever, she is not alone. 

Her eyes shut. Her breath and her words cease at the same time. Her heart persists for a feeble beat or two, and Marius kisses her forehead. I am sure that she feels it.

His arms clutch her tightly as she cools. Perhaps shock has rendered him motionless. Perhaps later there will be room to process other feelings. Tonight, there is a battle to be fought and lost.

The next morning, a man comes to clean up the pile of corpses that has grown near the barricade. Student's bodies are piled one on top of another, lifeless and freezing. I still cover my dear Eponine, who lays at the very bottom of the heap. As the man lifts her up, back into the hazy morning sun, he looks at her face and and grimaces.

"And this silly thing died smiling,” he says. “Ah, she must be with God." He heaves us up into the death-ridden carriage. For the rest of the world, life continues as normal.


End file.
